Tomorrow Will be Kinder
by Cherrie Keane
Summary: A few months after Peeta returns home from the Capitol, Katniss wonders how the war has affected the boy with the bread and attempts to understand everything they have collectively lost. Set in the 'Growing Together' period.
1. Chapter 1

What? A story that's_ not_ Static Shock? Huh? What is this madness?

Yep. HUNGER GAMES. This is set after the war, in what I have come to call the 'grow together' period. I always wondered about if Katniss ever thought about everything that _Peeta_ had lost, not just herself. This is my way of hashing that out. Written in Katniss's POV.

Disclaimer: I don't own THG trilogy, that honor goes to Ms. Collins. I am just trying to treat some of my Peeniss feels and fill in the emptiness that Mockingjay left me with. Tears forever.

* * *

I try to move, but all of my motions are restricted. My arms are held in place, my legs jerk forward but make no progress. Behind me, I am sure, there is an unspeakable horror, a muttation to the likes of which I have never witnessed. My guess is greeted with a confirming and terrifying howl that shakes the darkness around me. Within moments it will be upon me, its claws ripping my fragile body to ribbons, the vessel that houses my screams being devoured until there is nothing left. There is nothing I could ever do to save myself. Everything I have worked for, everything I have done in my life is rendered meaningless in this moment. I will be dead soon and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. I am helpless. So helpless.

I feel my body quake uncontrollably and abruptly. This is the end; surely this is where I die. Surely it is, finally, after losing so much already…

Suddenly I feel my eyes spring open.

I'm greeted with the half-light of morning, young and gray, the sun having not fully risen in the sky yet. My entire body is covered in a cold sweat, the bed sheets tangled around me, binding me in place like a straightjacket. One tether of the blanket is wrapped around my neck, reminding me of Peeta's hands so many months ago, the hatred in his eyes, his cold expression fixed upon my face as my body went limp.

_'No don't think about that.' _Whispers a voice in my head. I force my mind to regain control over my body, to come back to reality and calm the hammering of my heart in my chest. Thinking about Peeta would only exacerbate this. I force him out of my mind and pull the covers from my neck.

I blink a few times to adjust my vision to the absence of impending darkness. I remind myself that Peeta is not here. The muttations that chased me through my nightmares are not here. The horrible crushing darkness is not here. I force myself into a sitting position in the bed and brush the rest of the restricting blankets off of my body. I take a deep breath and speak to myself aloud.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am alone in my bed in my house in Victor's Village. I am safe. I am home." That last sentence leaves a strange taste in my mouth. "…as close to home as I am going to get right now." I amend, feeling no better for my efforts. I have no home. My home and just about everyone in it was destroyed by the Capitol and sent to a place where I will never have them again.

_'Stop that.'_ Murmurs that voice in my head once more, attempting to soothe away the lingering darkness of the nightmare.

I want to go back to sleep, but I know that is not an option anymore. Sleeping is no longer safe for Katniss Everdeen. It hasn't been for months now. Every morning I wake like this, before dawn, my voice rough from screaming in my nightmares, the bed sheets tangled around me like netting from a snare. I haven't had a good night's rest since I came back from the capitol months ago and it shows on my face, a little more every day. I vaguely wonder what my prep team would think of the prominent dark circles under my eyes. I can almost hear Octavia's tsking as she hurries off to find a suitable make-up to hide the marks on my skin.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed. I know sleep will not come to me anymore today. A small part of me rejoices, because in the absence of sleep, there is also the absence of nightmares. And while my reality at this moment is not perfect, nor will it ever be, it is far better than the horrors I face in sleep.

After splashing my face with some water from the bathroom, finding some relatively clean clothes to wear, and coercing my hair into its braid, I run down the stairs to the front door, unafraid of anyone hearing me. I live alone these days, my only reliable and slightly constant company being the occasional Greasy Sae, Haymitch, and Peeta.

I pause for a moment at the foot of the stairs.

_'Peeta.'_

Right now he is in the house next to Haymitch. He was discharged from the Capitol months ago and took up residence in his old home in Victors Village. Like me, he had nowhere else to go. For a moment my mind lingers on our common fate, wondering if he knows that we share it.

I walk into a kitchen and attempt to procure a breakfast for myself. Greasy Sae stopped coming to make my breakfast a little while ago, at my request. These days I was usually out hunting until noon at the least, so I almost always missed breakfast and lunch. It was Peeta's return in the fall that had woken something in me, a survival instinct that had forgotten I had. He had suffered many of the same terrors as I had, yet he managed to be as productive as he was able. Everyday he was baking, painting, and more recently planting; anything to occupy his troubled mind. I took to his example and forced myself out of bed every day, coercing myself into doing the simplest of tasks at first, and then working my way onward. After a while I started to hunt again, taking advantage of my inability to sleep until dawn. At first it was only for an hour or two, but now I could stay in the woods all day, almost forgetting everything in my past, dulling the pain until it was almost nonexistent. It seemed that everything in my life had changed except for the forest, my oldest and most enduring friend in midst of all this uncertainty.

Sae only came in the evenings now. And more often than not, Peeta came with her. Sometimes he would come over a little early in order to water the primrose he had planted for my sister at the side of the house. But most days he came at twilight with Sae, carrying his baking apron and a sketchbook. He baked fresh bread in the oven in my kitchen, and coaxed warm flames into my fireplace. He played simple games with Sae's granddaughter, patiently attempted to teach her to knit with the blue ball of yarn I had given her, and drew in his leather sketchbook when she fell asleep. Sometimes we talked while Sae cleaned the kitchen, but we always avoided uncomfortable topics. Whether that was for Sae's benefit or our own, we left ambiguous. When Greasy Sae left for the night, scooping up her granddaughter as she went, Peeta would often leave with her, except for the few times when he didn't. Sometimes he would be so absorbed with his sketches he wouldn't hear her leave. On these nights I never reminded him to go; instead I would lay on the couch and wordlessly watch him, allowing myself to be calmed by the sound of his pencil on paper, waiting for the moment when he looked up and realized that we were alone. Sometimes I would fall asleep before this happened and later find myself in my bed, knowing that he must have carried me there and left before I woke up. On these nights I would always lie awake thinking about how my father would do the same thing when I was little, and wondering how Peeta managed to be so quiet as not to wake me. Other times he would nod off on the couch in front of the fire and I would cover him with a spare blanket I kept in the hall closet just for such occasions. But when I returned to my living room in the morning he would always be gone, having left soundlessly in the night, folding the spare blanket and leaving it on the couch in his absence.

On those mornings, I often sat on the couch for a moment, closing my eyes and letting my hands run over the spare blanket repeatedly. It brought a comfort I couldn't describe.

I found that in the months that had followed his return, Peeta and I had grown closer, little by little, night by night. At first I had been apprehensive, wanting so badly to believe he was still the boy I had survived both Hunger Games with, but still completely untrusting of the Capitols lasting effects on his mind. Getting too close to him would only make his inevitable relapse more painful for me. Eventually however my doubts slowly faded away. He had moments where darkness clouded over his eyes, reminding me that he was just as scarred from his past as I was with mine (if not more so), but he was quick to dispel them, shaking his head as if to clear them from his mind. Sometimes he excused himself and I didn't see him until the next day. But when he returned, within moments or within hours, he was the same Peeta I remember, more or less.

We had grown to be friends, or something like it. I choose not to think of us as anything more, feeling it was far too soon for me to consider anything like that, after all I had lost. Love or anything closely resembling it seemed out of place in a world where my little sister was dead, my mother a hundred or more miles away at any given time, and my district in a constant state of reconstruction. Love seemed incomprehensible in this new and strange place, if not impossible. Sometimes I wondered how people could move on so quickly. How they could move on at all.

Other times I wondered why I couldn't move on with them. Sometimes I felt like I was trapped in one place, stuck against the current rushing past me.

I decided to scarf down the rest of the bread Peeta brought me last night for dinner and a bit of goat cheese. I packed a few apples for later, grabbed my father's worn hunting jacket and headed for the front door. The morning chill greeted my face like an old friend. The air was crisp, but it was also fresh and helped clear my head. I closed my eyes and breathed it in, letting it dispel the lasting fear from the dream, clearing away all the darkness I had taken with me from the bedroom and leaving only Katniss behind.

I looked instinctively to my left, towards Peeta's house, as I did every morning. It was something of a habit. Part of me just wanted to make sure it was still there in the morning, that _he _was still there in the morning, and hadn't disappeared from my life like he did my couch on those sleepy nights. I noticed a light was on in his kitchen. He was already awake. Smoke was coming out of his chimney already.

It was always this way. When I asked why a few weeks ago, his eyes flickered away from mine and he said he liked to bake early in the morning, that it was a leftover habit from before the 74th Hunger Games. I had wondered why he didn't mention his family's bakery, but I never got around to asking.

I also wondered if he was plagued by nightmares like me, and if that was a contributing factor to his early baking. I wonder if he tries to escape rabid mutts in his dreams like I do. I wonder if he tries to escape _me_ in his dreams. I wonder, but I never get around to asking.

I shake my head, as if that will physically banish those thoughts from my mind.

I take my eyes away from his house, remembering that I am wasting precious hunting time. The woods are calling my name, I can hear it in the branches when the wind blows through them, and I will not keep them waiting any longer than I have to.


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, moving right on to the next phase! The last chapter was really to set things up, this is _really_ what I wanted to get to.

As always, comments are greatly appreciated! I also have to say a huge thank you for those who reviewed the last chapter! Hope this one is just as good.

Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins, who wrote THG trilogy so. Technically. this isn't even mine. *gasp*

* * *

Through the trees I can see the clouds gather on the horizon.

They are far away now, but with the slight breeze in the air I know they would be upon me soon. As if to assure my speculation, my ears are greeted with the low rumble of thunder a ways off.

I decide to cut my hunting day short. While there is no rain now at present, walking home in the downpour is not something I want to deal with today. I reluctantly leave the forest just as the sun is touching down on the dark clouds on the horizon.

My game bag is heavy with a few squirrels, two rabbits, greens, and a few wild fruits that I found growing in the woods, including some tomatoes I discovered growing by my and Gale's old meeting place.

Gale. I felt my shoulders sag a bit at the name. Up ahead the wind picked up and scattered a few dry leaves at my feet.

In the beginning, when I had just started hunting again, our old spot troubled me. I saw our old worn rock and thought only of Gale and our days spent in the woods together. Then I thought of the ruthless killer shining in his eyes, growing as he did, how the war brought out the worst parts of him, and took away the friend I had once had. Other times I wondered how I had not seen it before, how I had neglected to notice the signs of the man he would grow to be. Less often, but still present times, I wondered if things would have turned out differently had he been reaped instead of Peeta in the 74th annual Hunger Games.

But with time, I trained myself to toss these thoughts aside, and with them, the pain that came with them. I learned to separate his face from the sound of the bombs falling from the sky, the heat of the fire on my skin, and the last panicked facial expression my little sister would ever wear. I constantly reminded myself that Gale and I had the same options, we just chose different paths.

It was something that soothing voice in my mind constantly reminded me of.

Gale even called me a few times since I had returned home. The first few times I refused to answer, having nothing to say to him that I haven't already said or never wanted to say. The last time he called a month or so ago I answered by accident, thinking it was my mother.

We spoke for only a few moments, but in a small way, it comforted me. He spoke to me cordially, carefully, but still with the slight edge that I recognized belonged exclusively to this new and strange Gale. I was surprised to know that he and Peeta spoke on a regular basis, that Peeta reassured him that I was safe and doing well. I was even more surprised when he slipped up for a second, and called Peeta his friend. Wasn't that what I was supposed to be? Gale's friend?

But now I felt something between us was different, something had shifted, and in its vacant place something else had grown, like vines in the spaces between trees.

Post-war Gale was no longer the friend I remember; we had grown into people that functioned on two opposite sides of the same spectrum. But calling him an acquaintance, or even worse, an enemy, settled our relationship into an unfamiliar place. And if there was one thing that Gale would never be, unfamiliar was one of them. He may be different, more distant now, but our past would always be there to assure me that somewhere the boy who taught me how to snare a rabbit in the night would always be somewhat apart of my future. The word 'ally' came to mind during our last conversation on the telephone. It made me think of Johanna, with her short cropped brown hair and her aloof disposition. The word felt right for both of them, and I wondered why it had not come sooner.

I had also mentioned Johanna over the phone before I could stop myself. I was surprised to note that, once I started talking to someone outside of District 12 that wasn't my mother or my Capitol doctor, I was starved for information about the outside world. I asked about Beetee and Annie and Pollux as well, but it was Gale's answer for Johanna that surprised me. I learned that she was living with him in District 2. He did not go into further detail however.

I expected the jealously to bubble up at his words, and maybe more feelings that would further confuse me, but I was surprised to find that none came.

Gale's one and only phone call was full of surprises.

I remember hanging up that night and finding myself placated. Johanna and Gale would make a formidable team, maybe even more formidable that Gale and I ever would have. She, for certain, could match the burning fire that Gale had inside him.

In this particular game, they were equals.

And I liked to think that Gale thrived with someone who was on the same level playing field as he himself was on. A worthy opponent, so to speak.

The first droplets of rain began to fall just as I began climbing the front stairs to my house. The lights are on in the kitchen already and I can smell the scent of coal and smoke in the air. Sae must already be here.

I expected to hear her voice greet me from the kitchen as I entered the house, but instead, my ears are graced with another entirely different voice.

Its Peeta's smirking face I see as I walk in through the front door.

He's leaning on the kitchen door frame, wearing his old apron over a dark blue shirt, complete with tell-tale flour stains and all. He has a bit of the white powder on his nose. He gives his blonde hair a flick with his head as I walk in.

"Where is Sae?" I say before I can stop myself. His smile deflates slightly, but when he speaks, it's as pleasant as ever.

"Her granddaughter is sick. She sent word to Haymitch today in town." He hesitates a moment. "I volunteered to come, but if you would rather-"

"No." The words leave my mouth without permission and I scramble to find a way to calm the edge in my voice. "I mean. I just..." Why am I so bad at speaking? I swallow and try again. "I wondered if something was wrong, that's all. I don't mind if...it's just us." I finish rather lamely, hoping to be struck by lightning where I stand.

His smile is back though, as I suspected it would be, and it's a comfort. "Well then, let's just hope you brought something I can cook then."

I laugh. "Which doesn't leave us with too many options."

"Unless you found my fabled bread tree." He says mock-hopefully, recalling an old joke from our first time in the arena. I walk past him and into the kitchen, bumping him playfully with my game bag as I go. Maybe it won't be so bad to break the nightly routine, just this once. I can already feel some tension fall away from my mind as I hear him follow me to the kitchen table where I dump out my bag.

"No such luck Mr. Mellark.

* * *

After a dinner of squirrel and tomato stew, we decide to move into the living room. I convinced Peeta to light a fire in the hearth, so he busied himself with setting up the kindling just right. I pat my stomach satisfyingly, recalling the way I mopped up the red sauce from my plate with the fresh bread Peeta made. Surely somewhere within the candy coated streets of the Capitol, Effie Trinket is cringing.

While Peeta coaxes the flames from the dried wood, I busy myself with the kettle in the kitchen. Earlier, while I skinned and gutted the squirrel, saving some of the entrails for buttercup, Peeta surprised me with a present. He had managed to get his hands on the hot chocolate he and I had in Capitol. Neither of us had any since the Quarter Qwell. My eyes must have betrayed my longing for the hot, creamy liquid, because he playfully pulled them back and placed them on the counter behind him.

"Ah ah ah, it's for _after_ dinner." He chastised.

I rolled my eyes and continued peeling fur from my squirrel, cursing my face for betraying me.

Once the kettle was full of water, I place it over the open flame of the stove. I then fill two mismatched mugs with cocoa powder and a bit of confectionery sugar as Peeta instructed told me to do earlier. I decide I would give him the orange and yellow cup. It had been my sisters, and usually I did not dare touch it, but I thought Peeta might like it. Though still pleasant as always, he seemed a little more reserved today at dinner. His comments, while still charming, were not as quick, and he didn't fill the silence with cordial chatter as he usually did. Even as he cooked I noticed his face drop slightly when he seemed to be lost in thought. There were a few moments I noticed him pushing around the tomatoes on his plate, his brows furrowed in only what I could describe as anguish. But what could be the matter? Was I really such bad dinner company? I found myself wanting to say something, anything, to change his demeanor. But silence was the only volunteer that came to mind; I was not as gifted with words as he was.

Well, maybe having an orange mug of hot chocolate in his hands would make him feel better. If not, I was officially out of ideas. However, I couldn't imagine anything of Prim's ever bringing anyone any emotion but pure happiness.

When I returned to the living room to wait for the kettle to come to a boil the fire was already roaring in the grate. Peeta sat in front of it, pouring over his sketchbook, his pencil flying over the blank pages, his hair swaying with the slight movements of his body. I smile to myself and quietly took my customary place on the couch, watching my companion in his element. Maybe I imagined his curious behavior from before.

He had once said he hated it when I only watched him draw, and didn't stop him from silently sketching on. Though I didn't say it at the time, I could only think that I hated to see him stop.

After a few minutes, or what I assumed to be a few minutes, I hear the kettle whistling. I closed my eyes for a moment and lost track of the time listening to Peeta's pencil on paper. In all honestly, I expected him to rise from his spot in front of the fire, but he stayed stationary. I watched him for a second, wondering what he was waiting for. Then I noticed that he stopped drawing altogether. His arched back was motionless and his hand, still holding the pencil, remained unmoving.

After an impacient moment I huffed and left my place on the couch, going out of my way to nudge him with my foot for his laziness. He didn't say a word, just stayed perfectly still as my toes made contact with the bottom hem of his shirt. Maybe he was tired.

In the kitchen I can clearly make out the sound of the rain. I'd almost forgotten about the downpour outside, the roar of the fire in the living room having masked it completely. It pattered on outside, falling in earnest now, unaware that no one in this house was paying the least bit of attention to it.

I fill the mugs with hot water, taking comfort in the heat of them and the contrast it had to the chill that was outside. The smell of the hot chocolate warms my lungs and I can't help but take a quick sip out of my mug before I walk back into the other room. The hot liquid runs down my throat and warms me from the belly up. It reminds me of simpler days, days before the mockingjay, or even before the games; which I find strange since I had only ever had hot chocolate with Peeta after we were both reaped at the 74th Hunger Games.

When I return to the other room with two steaming mugs in my hands, I notice that Peeta hasn't moved from his spot on my floor. It takes me a moment to recognize that his shoulders are shaking slightly.

My heart sinks right down into the floor.

What if he's having an episode? I'm all alone, and though I have dealt with them a few times before, I was always in the company of others, ready for back up if needed. What if I make it worse? Who will come for me if I suddenly find Peeta's strong fingers wrapped around my throat?

_'No.'_ Whispers a voice in my mind. Usually it is the soothing voice that chases away my nightmares, but now, it is rallying me forward, urging my body to go into action. '_He needs you.'_ Yet I stay glued to the spot with a slight fear. Once again, I hear the voice murmur to me once more, calming my fear slightly. '_It's **Peeta**.'_

I know Peeta would not hurt me. Not consciously anyway. I have to trust that. I have to be strong.

It's this argument I repeat to myself as I set the mugs down on a nearby end table and lower myself to the floor on his level. When I lean my head down to see him, he turns away from me. That's never happened before.

"Peeta?" My voice is barely audible. I feel powerless and unsure, unable to do more than say his name and hope that he doesn't launch himself in the direction of my weak points.

Instead, he speaks to me. "I should leave Katniss."

The comment is a slap in the face. Does he not trust me to take care of him? Is my fear of being alone with him so obvious? Am I really making it worse?

But no, that can't be. Usually during these moments he can't speak more than a few disjointed words or phrases. I remember them clearly. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, usually clutching something for support, none of which he is doing now. His arms hang limply at his sides. Though I cannot see his face, I see the muscles in his jaw are relaxed.

Then what is it?

My ears pick up a tiny sound slightly below Peeta's midsection. My eyes flicker to what's in his lap: his sketchbook. On the page is a half finished rendering of a woman. Upon a longer inspection I realize it's his mother. It must be, for my only memory of her, the one where her face is screwed up in anger at her son's inability to avoid burning bread, flashes across my mind. Only she is far more beautiful than I remember. Instead of her features being distorted in a scowl, yelling at me to get out of her trash, she is smiling. The corners of her mouth pulled up her entire face and erased the witch I knew before. He has drawn her almost perfectly, and without any reference around him.

Then a notice a small dark distortion on the left side of her face. It reminds me of rain on pavement, leaving behind a circular imprint. Its only when another falls do I realize the water's source.

I feel my brow furrowing as I try to look into Peeta's face. I see droplets line the curve of his jaw through his blonde hair. I watch as he tries to regain control, his back shaking slightly with the effort. Is he…crying? The internal inquiry is unnecessary; I knew the answer just as the question came to my mind.

And somehow, I'm even more scared.

I know how to help him combat his episodes. I know how to avoid what triggers him. I know how to calm his tension after he's spent moments fighting the horrors in his mind.

But this? How could I be prepared for this? I don't even know how to handle my own tears when they come, let alone his. The boy with the bread is the strong one, not me.

So the moment my hands begin to move, I do not stop them. I follow their lead, and do what comes naturally to me, praying that it's sufficient.

I place one hand on the floor, over his, and give a gentle squeeze. I wait a moment to see if he flinches away from me, and when he doesn't, my courage swells slightly. With my free hand, I reach upward and gently brush a few strands of hair away from his face and behind his ear. I press my lips together hopefully, holding my teeth against them and wondering what I should do next.

Peeta, however, delivers me from any more awkward guesses at what to do. He angles is head in the direction of my hand, and I let it linger before calling it back to my side. I can see his face now, the lines of tears leading from his eyes to the bottom of his chin before falling from him, staining the paper below. Before long, his drawing will be ruined and he will have to start over. I don't mention this though. When he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically unsteady.

"It's almost her birthday." he whispers into the floor. I assume he means his mother, and say nothing. He continues after a moment "I tried to go to my family's bakery today and I...I couldn't. The closer I got, the worse it was. Like I never fully realized how..." I see drops of water begin to form in his blonde eyelashes, but he doesn't turn away from me. When he speaks again, I can barely hear him. "...how alone I am."

His words pierce me in a way I have never considered.

Of course he feels this way. However horribly empty I must feel at times, he must feel_ far_ worse. His entire family is gone, lost in the ashes of District 12. His brothers, his kind and quiet father, his mysterious mother, along with just about every friend he has ever known before the games: they are all gone. With the exception of Delly, there was no one from his past left in his life.

Everything beyond Victors Village left nothing but ghosts for him. It suddenly hit me how little he left the area around our current location, and how I had never truly noticed until now.

My hand squeezed his a little firmer.

He is lost too.

Of course he was.

We _both_ are.

"You are not alone." I try to make my voice strong, but it comes out as soft as the sound of his tears on the pages below.

In that moment, is eyes find mine, and at once I can see the full extent of despair in them. I'm taken aback by a feeling that it surely must be against the laws of nature for such an expression to ever cross Peeta's features.

With his free hand, he closes the sketchbook in his lap and moves it to the floor. For a moment I feel my heart skip a beat. Was he leaving me? Had I said the wrong thing?

But no. He lifts his free arm in a gesture that I can come closer. This option is so much more desirable than the alternative that I climb right into his arms without a second thought. I curl into his lap and let his arms wrap around me, bringing once again a steadiness I didn't think Peeta could still muster in his current state. But my refuge with him is the same as ever, a rock in a constantly changing current.

I suddenly think of my father, and how he would cradle me and my sister in his lap when we were afraid of the occasional thunder outside. I remember Prim's face, much younger then, buried in his chest as he gave us sanctuary from the noisy world outside.

Before I can stop and remind myself that I need to be strong for Peeta, my mind is flooded with images of my sister's face. Her laugh that I would never hear again, her blonde hair that I would never braid up for school, her hands I would never hold while she slept in the bed next to mine. A familiar hole opens up in my chest, causing me to cling to the boy around me tighter, and tears to fall fast from my own eyes. I bury my face in the crook of his neck as my body is wracked with sobs I did not think I still had in me. I'm powerless to stop, and after a few moments I give up trying to calm myself and let the tears flow.

"I'm sorry." I find myself whispering into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry." Whether I was saying it for Prim, or to Peeta, or for all the people whose lives I had somehow managed to change for the worst, I don't know.

I feel Peeta's chest quake under me and I know that he too has given himself over to the crushing misery. He doesn't fight it, doesn't try to hid it from me; he just lets it wash over him. I feel his hand go to my hair and brush it back repeatedly. The gesture is familiarly comforting and I hold on to him tighter still, as if he is my only tether left to the world. For all I know right now, he could be.

I let myself mourn over everything in my life. My strong father. My treasured sister. Sweet little Rue and her songs high above in the trees. My friends. My district. Peeta's family. Every grave I had managed or witnessed to fill.

And even though his own shoulders are shaking with cries that I can't hear, I can feel Peeta's arms hold me closer, blocking out the noisy world around me, protecting me from any more harm.

I sink into him, grateful finally for a place where I don't have to hide my crippling grief for everything we have collectively lost.

* * *

I don't know how much time has passed when I finally feel our bodies eventually steady. Even then, we remain tangled up in each other, unwilling to let go. After some time, it is Peeta that finally speaks. His voice is spent, but even.

"It's late Katniss."

I only murmur in agreement slightly into his shirt. I don't make an effort to move though. I open my eyes a little bit and see the room has gone dark. The fire must have died. My suspicion is confirmed when I hear the slight sound of a coal popping before sizzling out. Somewhere on an end table, our hot chocolate has gone cold.

"Katniss?" Peeta tries again, softer this time.

I close my eyes again and place my hand on his shoulder opposite to where my head rests. I can feel my face going cold where the tears fell from my eyes, but I do not bother to brush the residual water away.

My voice feels like sandpaper when I finally speak. "I'm tired, Peeta." It's the truth and all I've got right now.

After a moment's hesitation, he seems to decide on a plan of action. In a few careful motions he's up, and I'm aware that I'm being carried up the winding stairs to my room. I feel him stumble a few times under the support of his prosthetic leg, but he recovers each time and carries on. Before I realize it I feel myself being separated from him and onto an unforgivably cold and empty mattress. He does his best to tuck the blankets in around me, but I feel more abandoned than ever. The tiredness I had felt only moments ago evaporates into a slight panic as I realize he's preparing to leave me alone in my bed for the night.

I catch his hand just as he turns to go.

He faces me, and I see the question in his eyes. Haven't we gone far enough tonight? Broken enough walls? But something feels different between us, like a warm connection had grown between us in the past few hours of cold tears. It wasn't an entirely new feeling, but it was still remarkable, however unclear, in its own right.

But I wasn't scared.

"Stay with me?" The words fell naturally from my mouth.

I feel the pull on his hand loosen slightly as he turns back towards me. His expression is conflicted for a split second, but within moments it's resolved. I know his answer as soon as I hear the bed springs tremble under his weight. I close my eyes as I let his arms wrap around me once more, and his last words lull me to sleep.

"Always."


End file.
